


Velvet

by xucan



Series: Prismatic [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-05-20 22:30:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14903325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xucan/pseuds/xucan
Summary: More Aymeric/WoL fluff, yes, yes! (well, it shows up in chapter 4 & beyond). Slight spoilers for 4.3 in first chapter, 4.4 spoilers in ch 3 & beyond.





	1. Petals

You’re dreaming again. 

Dreaming of nothing in particular – random flashes of life before – until you feel snow on your cheeks. You turn your face up to it, as flurries dance in the pale pinks and peaches of the slanting, early evening light. And then – in completely undignified behavior for the Warrior of Light – you stick your tongue out. The fat flakes hit your tongue and give you an obscene amount of pleasure, considering the simplicity of it all – but they’re big, and lovely, and taste clean and icy and –

Your eyes flutter open, because you hear someone splashing in the water in a place where there _is_ no snow. There are, however, plum blossom petals falling around you, nearly constantly. It reminds you of the snow in Ishgard. It’s beautiful. You make a drowsy note to yourself to write Aymeric of this in your next letter.

When your eyes focus, the Lord of Doma is standing above you, looking down with a slightly bemused expression. You look back on him sleepily, arching a brow, not caring that he is taking you in like this – stretched beneath the shade of a tree, blossoms fluttering down. He’s no threat. 

He inquires after you, why you’re here, napping under the shade of plum trees. You lazily wave your hand above your head; can’t he see? It’s quite beautiful with the slanting light. Why _wouldn’t_ you nap here? Or is the Warrior of Light not allowed naps? Probably not, but you can’t bring yourself to care at the moment, basking in the lingering warmth of the sun, the feel of velvet-soft petals falling ceaselessly. You’re tired – very tired – and this is a quiet, calm spot. Safe. Somewhere you can tie up the reins of your bird – who’s currently hunting in the shallows for tender grasses – and let your guard down. Not think for a while. Dream. 

He throws his head back, laughs – as he does. You smile drowsily, and can’t quite bring yourself to move. Though you do manage to mumble a question for him – what is _he_ doing here? Surely there’s a million and a half things that require his attention. He smiles back at you and sits down near you.

 _Just seeing after a friend_.

 You laugh at that. It’s been a long few days. It’s generous of him to come in search of you, when he hasn’t the time for such visits. You roll over to your side and sit up, feeling a little more awake, shaking off your dreamy mood. You smile back at Hien, then turn your gaze back to the grass beneath your hands, feeling shy suddenly.

The two of you make small talk, dancing around all the big issues – but you talk about the Enclave, how Doma will move forward, be better and bigger and have more dango. All the important things, at least in the realm of the minor every day. There are bigger issues to discuss, but neither of you will broach those quite yet. He asks what’s next for you, now that Doma is – more or less – settled. You ponder a few beats, not that you have to think too hard, but you have to try and decide whether or not to say it –

  _Ishgard_ , you respond after a few moments. 

Hien looks on you with some surprise. _But it’s cold and snowy_. Quite in contrast to this pleasant clime, with fluttering cherry blossoms.

You smile to yourself. _Ever been there_? you inquire. Of course he hasn’t – you know this.

 It can be quite pretty, you try and explain. There’s something about the architecture and the snow. The way the late afternoon light turns the flurries into showers of pastels.

“And what of the Lord Commander?” the Lord of Doma inquires with a knowing smirk.

 _He hasn’t anything to do with it_ , you murmur, even when you both know such a statement is a lie.

Hien lets you keep your lie, doesn’t call you on it. You’re glad for this, as the petals fall around you both. The soft, velvety petals. They fall like snow in late afternoon Ishgard, pink, beautiful, innumerable. 


	2. Frost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted this, then deleted it, but then thought: no, it's really OK. Hope it IS actually OK for faithful readers!

Your trip back to Ishgard is rather eventful, mostly on account of unpredictable Eorzean weather. A day or two of soaking rainstorms give way to the bitter cold of Coerthas; you should’ve brought more appropriate gear for the trip back, but here you are. Wet and very cold.

By the time you hit the Holy See, you’re freezing and looking – based on the slightly shocked expressions of the grooms at the stables – something of a fright. Your feet send shockwaves of pain up your legs as you dismount your bird, deadened nerves suddenly waking again. But it’s not _that_ far to the Borel mansion, and you’re not in such dire shape that you can’t manage the walk, even if you can’t really feel your feet – except when you really, _really_ can.

The guards at his house look appalled, too, but you don’t care – just want to fling yourself on Aymeric. Thus you bolt though the door that is duly opened for _the Warrior of Light_. At least that status still carries some weight in this city, you think to yourself grimly, even if you’re afraid your lips _are_ turning blue.

You stumble through the door of his suite, and he looks up – first looking delighted, then concerned.

 _By the Fury_ , he exclaims as he gets up to greet you, _what in the name of the Twelve has happened?_

Your teeth are chattering slightly, and you start to feel the full effects of too many days in damp gear and the Coerthan cold. You try and explain, mumbling – you just wanted _so badly_ to see him, and perhaps hadn’t been as _prudent_ as you ought to have been – and you know you’re barely making any sense, since your face is numb. He simply tells you – rather sharply - to get your gear off, and he slips off somewhere as your frozen fingers stumble with the closures of your attire.

You’re still fumbling with gear when he returns, blankets in hand. You look up at him, and you stumble further – until he’s on you, removing everything with fingers that _aren’t_ half frozen, hastily.

 You tell him _this is not the time for_ – and he huffs (you’re not sure you’ve ever heard Aymeric _huff_ , but he just did) and tells you to be still. Your half-wet, half-frozen gear is off before you can say much else, and you’re wrapped in a blanket, having not moved, because he told you not to in a way he’s never commanded you.

 _Sit_ , he orders, in his  _Lord Commander's_ _voice_ , the one he never uses when you're alone. But he uses it now.

So you obey, wrapped in your blanket, in front of a roaring firing. You’re not shivering as much as you were.

Thus you find yourself sitting in front of warmth, wrapped in a blanket - your feet are in the lap of the Lord Commander of Ishgard, who pokes and prods and looks up occasionally to watch your reaction. You realize he must have seen this before, because surely freezing Ishgardian knights are not a surprise, but it’s a slight shock nonetheless. 

You’re looking on him with a bit of wonder – _the Lord Commander is handling my feet as if they’re glass_ – when he asks if you can feel _that_ , and prods, and you _do_ feel it. It hurts – _really_ hurts. It’s a sharp pain, shoots up your leg, and you tell him so. You’re too tired and cold to smack his hand away, which you would under other circumstances, if you weren’t so tired and cold. You tell him this, too.

He laughs – a relieved laugh – and leans forward to kiss your forehead. You wish he was kissing your palms once again – _one, two_ , a few more on the way to a million, you’re well past a thousand at this point – but lean into him. You've missed him desperately. 

He touches you tenderly, looks on you in the same way – he’s happy you’re home, you’re happy to _be_ home, happy to realize you _have_ a home. Even if your feet are half-frozen.


	3. Sun

You lay on your stomach, early morning sun warming your face as you dash off your thoughts on the back of a flyer you picked up in Doma advertising an exceptionally dodgy-looking remedy, pausing occasionally to think of what you’d like to say. You write to him of the landscape, which you know you’ve told him of a thousand times before. But he sometimes gets a wistful look on his face when you talk of your travels, and always encourages you to say more, tell more, especially of what everything looks like, smells like, feels like. Even if he’s heard it before, he always urges, _because it still must be a_ little _different the next time ‘round_. So you do.

The grassy hill is Hien’s favorite spot on this green plain ringed by high ranges, and you’ve always been able to see why. It’s a marvelous view, especially during dawns and dusks. Your bird is going after sleepy bugs and tender grasses with a dogged determination, and you’re simply feeling relaxed.

You write of frivolous things, leaving off serious discoveries and context for later. You know you’ll see each other soon enough in Ala Mhigo, so you won’t be bottling everything up for months and months on end as usual. But it’s nice to write of life in the Mol camp, the way the sky looks at various points of the day, the odd fauna, the way these tribes throw themselves into battle in a way that alarms even _you_ (which is saying something), the Namazu and their little outpost, the look on Magnai’s face when Y’shtola called him _little sun_ ….

You smile wryly at that. Every time you run into the brooding Oronir, you wonder what he and Aymeric would make of each other. You idly wonder if the Buduga would pursue the Lord Commander with the zeal they stalk Hien, and decide – as you sketch in the corner of your letter – that you don’t like the idea, and hope there is never cause to find out. Though, you muse, Ishgard is at least a little too closed and a little too cold to make their appearance anything other than _highly_ suspicious.

You let your eyes close as you appreciate the warmth on your face, the smell of the Steppe, and the way little breezes rustle the grasses you lay in. It’s almost as if this were somewhere else _entirely_ , so cut off from many of the day-to-day concerns you find elsewhere. It is a peculiar kind of peace, even when among people who can't get enough of fighting, kidnapping, or moon-searching, depending on where you happen to be at a given moment.

You wish he were here with you. 

But he is not, so you fold the letter, adding an interesting flower you had earlier pressed in between the pages of your worn journal, and give the smooth paper a kiss – _one, two_ , doesn’t count towards a million, but it makes you feel better – and slip the missive into your top, where it sits next to your heart. You’ll mail it when you get a chance, which may well be when you arrive in Ala Mhigo. In which case, you think as you collect your faithful bird, you’ll hand it to him, and he will read it later. After you’ve parted again, because you both know your moments together are far too brief. 

It’s still not terribly early, but the Mol camp is abuzz with activity. The distinctive sounds of a _morin khuur_ reach you, even at this relatively early hour, and the smells of breakfast being prepared make your stomach rumble. Hien and Cirina are talking in front of a yurt – nothing serious, it looks like, plenty of smiles and light laughs – and the Lord of Doma gives you a broad smile as you tie up the reins of your bird.

 _The conquering khagan returns_.

You give him a laugh and a shake of your head. You’re just glad your tangle with Sadu ended with what you needed of her. And it’s a good thing most of the primals you’ve faced to this point aren’t _nearly_ as tenacious, or knowingly so thirsty for battle.

Y’shtola emerges, asks where you’d gotten off to so early. You respond simply with the truth: watching the sun rise higher in the sky in a nice spot, writing letters. Hien gives you a surprised look. _Letters_? Why not a linkpearl?

You shrug, give a silent smile. There’s something nice about delayed gratification, you think, and much to admire about a vague amount of permanence: not just conversations lost on the shifting wind. You treasure his letters to you. And you’ve seen his sheaf of letters you’ve written him - caught him reading them over, even when you’re there with him, in that city that is _so_ different from this vast steppe. You let your fingers settle over where your heart beats, right beneath where your next letter to him waits until it can be sent or given. They’re tangible proof of _you_ , that you have been, that you still are. You promise every time you send one off that you  _will be_. You both will be. 

Your heart thrums a little faster at the thought.


	4. Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Save this chapter & the last, I don't think I've ever written anything so close to actual game MSQ dropping (for a lot of reasons), and I'm not sure about doing it now, but I've been typing away & it feels like a necessary bridge to get to (non-MSQ) fluff. Hope it reads OK!

You are apprehensive entering the large audience hall, glancing around suspiciously, remembering what happened the _last_ time the Alliance came together in this fashion. It spelled disaster for you and several others. Though you do have to admit, the situation eventually presented some unexpected bright spots, even if they broke your heart later.

Your unease must be showing – at least slightly – because a comment is addressed to you from behind. _Dispassionate mask, dear Warrior_ , comes a familiar, much-loved voice in a low tone, and you rearrange your features quickly in response. Aymeric’s unexpectedly at your back as you all file into the grand reception chamber, and you dare not look at him because you’re afraid you might fling yourself at him, clanging trappings and all. Your whole body feels like a taut wire, the want of him singing through you. But he’s right. He often teases you about your implacable _Warrior of Light mask_ , and you tease back regarding his _Lord Commander face_. You both wear them for a reason. You will both wear them today.

When the official meeting gets underway, you find yourself seated across from him, eyes glancing at each other for no more than a brief moment. Your lips quirk into a slight smile, despite you telling them not to. Aymeric’s smile is even more subtle than yours; but really, you are both good at hiding all of this, and he still can’t _entirely_ suppress his happiness at seeing you face to face. You both put your _dispassionate masks_ back on, but not before Hien – seated between the two of you – notices the brief exchange. You glance at him, and he gives you a small smile, before assuming what must be his  _Lord of Doma countenance_. What a threesome you make, you sigh inwardly. What a group this entire _room_ makes. 

In truth, you’re not even sure why you’re here, and you certainly don’t know why they bothered giving you an agenda. It isn’t as if you’re in control of anything other than yourself, and it’s unlikely anyone would actually listen to any objections raised by the Warrior of Light. So you pass the time casting your gaze around the cavernous space, nodding politely when it seems appropriate, looking at many faces you haven’t seen in quite some time, and studiously _not_ looking at Aymeric, except when he’s speaking. 

Then the headache starts.

You’re not sure why you even think of it as such: it’s not a headache, it’s a completely shattering experience. You simply concentrate on staying upright in your chair and not thinking too hard, since that makes everything hurt worse – and it hurts badly enough to begin with.

When you _really_ come to and your vision clears entirely, it seems the rest of the table is at – or leaning over towards – Thancred, and you belatedly realize it wasn’t just you, and it wasn’t just an extraordinarily painful headache. It certainly wasn’t your usual experience.

So, in short order, you find yourself back where you started: at the foot of the grand staircase of the Ala Mhigan palace. Alisaie and Y’shtola and Lyse stand near you, normal enough, but the Elder Seedseer, too, which is definitely _not_. Uneasiness permeates this little gathering. The voice seemed clear enough to you, as far as these things go (in spoken words, if not in meaning), but perhaps you’re imagining it. Who knows? Has no one else ever experienced anything like this before? You can’t say you have _precisely_ , but you have experienced something close enough. On the other hand, there’s the matter of Thancred … so it’s time to go back to the Rising Stones, to Urianger, to try and figure all of this out. As the conversation turns towards things you can’t do anything about, your mind starts to wander. Your heart hurts, your head is pounding, you were looking forward to this for one reason and one reason only, and …

Your heart is galloping, and not in a good way. You’re more than a little disappointed at the idea of not seeing him. But you remember his letter a few weeks previous, stating there was other Alliance business to take care of, so they’d be in Ala Mhigo for at least a week. You ponder a few beats. Maybe … _just maybe_ ….  

When Alisaie clears her throat and inquires if something is wrong, you realize you’ve been looking up towards where the meeting has been taking place, worrying your lower lip between your teeth. Snapping out of it, you nod hastily. _A week_ , you think to yourself. You’re not sure why you’re so desperate to see him – chances are, you could amble back to Isghard and catch him soon enough – but you want to see him  _here_ , and as close to _now_ as possible. You quickly appraise the situation ahead of you: Thancred attended to in Ala Mhigo, the rest of the Scions need to go back to Urianger, what then? Well, probably nothing much for you. After all, there will be two Archons in attendance, and Alisaie, who, even if not an Archon, chomps at the bit always, and will be looking for some way to  _fix this_.

You wonder when you became so jaded that your first thought wasn’t how to fix this, but just how to spend more time in the company of one who makes you _forget all this_. But maybe you shouldn’t feel bad: who thinks of you when flinging you off to this or that dreadful mission? You’re more often than not a means to a (very bloody) end. Even your comrades treat you like that, when it suits them. So why _shouldn’t_ you do something for yourself, so long as you fulfill your duty – whatever that means in the moment.

Mind made up, you pull a letter from the pouch at your waist, folding it down on your thigh and scribbling on the bottom with your faithful nub of pencil. You straighten up after stuffing it back in its battered envelope, and ask Lyse if she could do you a small favor. She looks surprised for a minute, gazing at you as if she has no idea how to respond. _Well, that’s not exactly a surprise_ , you grouse internally: does it never occur to anyone that they’re always asking _you_ for things, and that maybe you’d occasionally like to ask _them_ for a hand? You don’t think anyone would dream of begrudging a minor request of yours, but even so, you’re out of patience for the afternoon. Simply holding the letter out to her, you don’t bother waiting for an reply in the affirmative. She snaps her mouth shut, and nods.

You ask her to give the missive to the Lord Commander, as _it concerns some recent business in Ishgard_. 

Her guileless eyes look back on you, and you almost feel guilty because of it, before you realize you have nothing to feel guilty _for_. She says she will see to it, smiles, before turning on her heel and returning to the palace with Kan-E-Senna.

Once again, you settle your fingers above where your heart beats. You hope – no, you _know_ \- he’ll understand, listen to the words you just now scrawled hastily at the bottom of a letter you wrote ages ago, or so it seems, on a lovely overlook in the Azim Steppe. 

 _Wait for me_.


	5. Flicker

By the time you finally make it back to Ala Mhigo, your head is still throbbing, and not just because of the headaches. The Alliance members are, you gather, engaged in dinner, so you make way to the parapets of the palace while you wait.

You lean over the wall, taking in the inky blackness of night, the stars and the clouds that are creeping over the mountains slowly. This place takes on an odd sheen at night: perhaps it’s the whiteness of the salt flats, which reflect whatever light they are given.

For your part, you are reflecting on the past few days. Bending a little lower, you let your hands stretch out into the space before you – watching torches leap and shudder, the shadows cast by your hands being made monstrous in the light. You idly wonder how much it costs to keep the place lit up like a beacon – _couldn’t all that gil be better spent elsewhere?_ – but then, you’re the Warrior of Light, and the economics of presenting a nation “appropriately” are not in your purview.

Very little is, of course. It’s one reason you’re often so silent on these official matters, even with Aymeric: your business is to be a highly-tuned weapon, ready to kill, not offer objections to … well, even the most obviously economically silly ideas. Still, it would be nice if more people even bothered to _ask_ your opinion on things coming to pass. After all, you’re frequently the one who’s face to face with what has been wrought by the decisions of others. 

Your mood is heading south quickly, when suddenly there are arms on either side of you, warmth behind you. No clanging trappings though. But a sonorous voice that inquires whether or not the Warrior of Light shouldn’t be more on guard, accompanied by a kiss on the top of your head. 

“Here, in this place?” you hear your voice responding, unbidden, and his laugh. Some part of your brain notes that it _is_ true that someone like Zenos could cut a swath through the corps here …. You must have let your temporary discomfort cross your face, because Aymeric whispers to you that he was simply teasing. You wonder for a minute how he managed to find you – how he even knew you were _here_. He apologizes for making you wait, and you reply that you know extricating one’s self from diplomacy is a difficult task indeed.

 _I asked the knights to let me know as soon as you’d returned, but we were in the middle of dessert_.

It’s your turn to laugh, and it’s a real laugh. Who knew cake could be more of a draw than … _you_. Clapping a hand over your mouth, you try not to let any more noises escape, and he kisses your temple. You can feel him smile. You wonder if he’s just teasing you.

You lean back into him, take a deep breath of the cool evening air. You trail fingertips over his hands that are on either side of you, then finally bring his palms to your lips.

 _One, two_. Kisses that _actually_ count on a way towards a million, unlike kisses on the back of a dodgy advertisement from Doma.

He shifts slightly, smiles into your neck. Then he kisses you there – _one_ – moves to the other side – _two_ – and asks a question, which makes you shudder as his breath ghosts across your ear. You’re not sure if it’s the words or the sensation that causes goosebumps to spring up:

“Does that make four more, then, on the way to a million?”

Apparently, you’re not the only one counting. _How does he know these things?_  

As far as you’re concerned, it does – and who’s counting, besides the two of you? You make the rules. Telling him so, with a saucy look, you let him turn you around. When you finally get to see him, he looks _so pleased_ to have you against him, you can’t help your heart leaping at the thought of what comes after.

You gaze upon him, as he looks back on you, in the flickering light of fiscally irresponsible torches. Just as you knew he would, he _did_ wait for you. You smile at that.


	6. Flutter

The two of you retire to his chambers, chatting amiably about nothing in particular on your way down from the walls of the palace. At least for your part, this is to cover up your desire: it _would_ be unseemly to have the Lord Commander of Ishgard and the Warrior of Light ravishing each other in a _hallway_. Although you occasionally dream about tossing decorum out a window, you’d never put Aymeric in such a position.

But at least you don’t have to be particularly careful here. The nice thing about having a hallway of nothing but the Ishgardian contingent is that you can simply enjoy each other’s company and let the pretense drop. They all know at least the vague outlines, they can see it, and they’ve heard the gossip – since now you _are_ subject to hearing about your love life as you move through the Pillars. Though, you sometimes think when the whispers reach you, at least it’s _equal_ parts horror and admiration (versus simply the former) that the Lord Commander and the Warrior of Lightare apparently rather more fond of each other than their positions would imply, based on the amount of time you spend at his manor. You always wonder how the busybodies know all this, but Aymeric tells you to pay no attention to such chatter, so you don’t (mostly. Except for the moments you want to stop and tell one of them that their timeline is quite off. You never do, of course, but it’s tempting).

His chambers are larger, more opulent than the ones you remember during the earlier campaign. He leads you in, and you hastily lean against the door, shutting out the hallway. Shutting both of you in here. He’s got a slight smile, but you’ve been watching him long enough to know that little quirk of the lips hides a serious hunger. He’s working on his _clanging trappings_ before you can even say anything. You wait until he’s got the most serious bits out of the way – he’d at least removed those damned pauldrons before he came to find you, thank the Twelve – before you set upon him and the obstacles that remain. He’s half-dressed before you can say much else. Your heart is fluttering in anticipation, and you find your hands trembling as you start working on your own armor.

When he kisses you, the first kiss you’ve gotten from him in what seems like half a year, your fingers really start stumbling. You want nothing more than to wrap yourself around him, want all this nonsense _off_ already so you can just be skin to skin, really feel  _him_.  

He apparently notices your ineffective fingers, so you both work on your gear. As it turns out, he’s better at dealing with closures and ties and pieces while distracted, so you stand there, arms out, and let him undress you. For your part, you just think of the way he tastes and smells and how soft his lips are, even when he kisses you with a fierce hunger, like he’s drowning and you are air. You finally fling your arms around his shoulders, ignoring the fact that there’s still clothing to be dealt with, just wanting to feel him.

After a few minutes more, right when you feel like you might burst into flame because your want of him is so overwhelming, you are the one gasping for air in surprise, as he goes from devouring you to looking on you with a soft expression. You look back questioningly, but before you can say anything, you find yourself tipped backwards into bed. You expect him to descend upon your body aggressively as he sometimes does, but he simply settles next to you, running a hand slowly down your side. You’re both half-clothed and you, for your part, are a little perplexed. He’s wearing one of his inscrutable expressions.

But you roll over on your side so you can face him, press yourself to him, and he gives you a slight smile. “You were shaking,” is all he says, “and it felt like your legs were about to give out.”

 _Did they?_ you think to yourself. It isn’t as if Aymeric would lie – he’s never had to talk you into bed and he certainly doesn’t need to now. But you don’t remember, didn’t feel it. So you just wedge yourself closer to him, wanting to feel that you both are really here at this moment, it isn’t some sleep-addled fantasy. Perhaps the events of the past few days have you more wound up than you even realized.

With each slow stroke of his hand down your back, you feel a bit of the tension in your muscles dissipating. You’re just breathing as slowly as you can while your cheeks are flushed with desire, trying to forget recent developments. Letting your heart settle. He moves between running his flat hand against you to feathering touches with his fingertips to something in between.

You try not to move, just quietly let his touch seep into your skin, but you can’t help shuddering at the feel of him. He holds you closer, though there’s not much closer you can get.

And so it goes. You breathe him in, as he’s breathing you in, and at the same time he’s making you melt a little more, and a little more, and a little more. Right before you feel like you’re going to melt into nothingness – or, at the very least, dissolve into a Puddle of Light - he asks you to talk, tell him of the past few weeks. You stiffen at the request, though he asks so little of you these days. _Not that_ , he says, furrowing his brows a bit. _Everything_ else. _Everything you wrote about_. You relax slightly, pushing him down so you can prop yourself above him, and you start to tell him about all the things there wasn’t room for in your letters – food and people and vistas and sunrises and stars. All the things you want _him_ to see someday. Bit by bit, your nervous energy starts to ease.

 _I know not what I should do without you_ , he confesses quietly into your bare shoulder after you’ve been rambling for gods know how long. He just wants to hear you talk, you can feel from his touch that he just wants to make sure you’re _you_ , that you still exist. You can well understand the impulse after the past few days, with everything that’s transpired. _You’re_ worried about all of it, to be fair. It doesn’t seem you’ll be the next one confined to an infirmary bed – with a beating heart, though (apparently) no soul – but really, who knows? It’s why you drape yourself on him, why he runs his fingers down you with firm purpose and asks you to talk. He wants to feel your mental presence as much as you want to feel him beneath you.

If you’re talking, if you can feel him, you’re still _here_.


	7. Gloaming

A few weeks later, you wake up – as is (at least for the blessed moment) usual – burrowed into a pile of blankets, the stretch of bed next you retaining only a bit of the warmth of the man who had lately occupied it. Aymeric had gotten up early and gotten to the Congregation shortly after the dawn broke, as his routine goes. You vaguely remember mumbling a sleepy _good morning_ , and his kisses – _one, two_ – on your eyelids that refused to open, despite your desire to see him. But you can be lazy in these periods where you have nothing pressing on the schedule: a few weeks of sleeping in somewhat makes up for the rest of the time, when you function on whatever you can catch in between crises. He doesn’t seem to mind. 

After you’ve woken, you spend some time perusing the many books in the Borel mansion. You find a large, lavishly illustrated volume of Ishgardian fairytales – it looks old, and you wonder if Aymeric read it when he was young. You smile to yourself a little at that, thinking of him before he was clawing his way up Ishgardian bureaucracy and society. 

Having spent most the day reading fantastical stories in the pale light, tracing your fingers over the elaborate, colored plates as you read, you’re a little startled when Aymeric’s lone manservant – not Aymeric himself - leans in through the door of the sitting room. He sheepishly asks if you’d mind taking the Lord Commander his dinner, since it appears Aymeric will be away from home until much later into the night. You quirk a brow, and before you can tell yourself to be quiet, ask wonderingly if he can’t just eat at the Forgotten Knight like the rest of you do. His manservant looks horrified by the idea of his _Ser Aymeric_ eating at the Knight. You suppress a laugh and hasten to reply that you’d be more than happy to run such an errand. The Twelve knows that in the not-too-distant past, you’ve handled far, _far_ more absurd requests than ferrying the Lord Commander’s dinner. The less said about goblin cheese, the better. 

It’s twilight, and the Pillars is beautiful as you set off for the Congregation – there’s a hint of flurries, even though the violet sky peeks through clouds, the first stars starting to show. You’re almost at the foot of the impressive curving stairs when you catch conversation coming your way, about the appallingly forward behavior of that … that _person_ with the Lord Commander. You look at the nattering men coolly as you stride by, Aymeric’s dinner in the basket looped over your arm (you wonder what exactly is in it, as it’s surprisingly heavy), and they look a little abashed that you’ve caught them. Well, at least you’re not a scullery maid, you suppose. You can only imagine the gossip _then_ , if this is how they respond to the one who took down Nidhogg.

You wish you had time to stop by House Fortemps, but things cool too quickly here in this land of cold and snow for you to take a detour, so you make a silent promise to yourself to do it tomorrow. You like being able to see the count during your Ishgardian sojourns, and he always seems just as pleased to see you. You can now even drink cocoa together without your mutual sorrows resonating too strongly.

Ambling your way to the Congregation, you don’t think much. You don’t have to – you’ve walked this path many times – but you are trying to make sure you arrive with your _dispassionate mask_ on, not flushed cheeks and excitement at seeing him. You doubt the young knights charged with guarding the main doors would notice either way, but best to be discrete.

But, guileless they are, these sweet young Ishgardians in their shining armor. They have no idea what you keep pent up in yourself, can’t even guess at it – you’re just the dragon-riding god-slayer in their minds. You don’t have to say anything – not for the main door, not for the door to his office – they just let you through, because you’re _you_. Well, there _are_ advantages that come with the status.

He looks up and smiles at seeing you, and after you shut the door behind you, you give him your best smile and a dramatic flourish with your free arm. _Your dinner, Ser Aymeric_. Stacking up his papers, he clears a spot for the basket you’ve brought. As soon as you’ve put it down, he reaches for your hands, turning them over so can kiss your palms. _One, two_. He’s the one that started this little tradition of yours, and it still thrills you. You shuffle your hands as you’re used to, and give him the _three, four_. You can’t hide a smile, thinking of four more on the way to a million.

You lean against the desk as Aymeric unpacks the basket, all while telling you about his day at the Congregation. He doesn’t seem at all surprised to see a bottle of wine and what appears to be a full three-course meal emerging, but your eyes are wide. This is not what _your_ dinners look like on late evenings (hells, mostof the time, late or not). You’re pretty sure it’s not what _his_ look like, either, considering you’ve caught him eating toast and eggs on more nights than you would like to count.

He pauses from his description of the latest bureaucratic absurdity while he takes in your expression. He smiles very slightly, then asks if all this doesn’t seem like a bit too much for him to eat on his own. You look down, and realize that yes, it _does_ look too much for him …. Oh. _Oh_.

 _For us?_ you manage to croak out, because it seems an oddly romantic gesture for something so quotidian, organizing this from afar. _But why?_ You inwardly curse yourself, why ask _why_ someone does something generous for you, just say _thank you_. But it’s such an unusual situation for you. You blush hotly, and he smiles more broadly.

He just wanted to see you, he explains, despite being tied down with his work this evening, wanted to ensure you’d come. And since when had you ever turned down a delivery errand?

You huff in mock irritation. Although … he’s not _wrong_. It gives you pause. When _was_ the last time you said no? Or at least, said _no_ and then had someone take that as your final answer. He apologizes for teasing you so, but you shake your head - it's an errand you didn't mind at all.

You can’t help feeling a little giddy. You don’t think anyone’s ever organized a surprise for you that didn’t end in death and destruction, and so this is a truly nice turn of events – at the end of your little mission, you’re simply faced with him smiling at you. Would that all your go-here-do-this requests ended in such a view. He bids you to sit on the bench in the corner of his cavernous office, and sets about making sure everything from the carefully-packed basket is to his liking. Before you know it, you’re balancing a plate of food in your lap, with Aymeric sitting beside you.

Dinner may be a few notches cooler than you’d get at his house, but the wine is good (even if you’re drinking it from teacups), and you’re sitting beside each other, shoulder to shoulder, as you eat. You can’t ask for much more. While refilling your teacup of wine, he asks what you’ve been doing all day, and you’re rather sure you blush a little when you tell him you’ve just been … lazing about and reading fairytales.

He smiles at you, asks if you’ll read some to him later, since he hasn’t heard them since he was rather young. You press a hand to your cheek, and from the feel of it, you’re practically on fire. You give him a brief smile, and nod your assent. You’ll be looking forward to it.


End file.
